Imrik caught sight of the orc warlord surging up from a thicket of reeds, axe still in hand.
“Let Maldiar argue when I have the warlord’s head,” Imrik told Maedrethnir. The dragon gave a deep-throated rumble of approval and turned towards the orc leader. Maldiar had spied the enemy as well and his griffon soared over the Naggarothi advance, speeding towards the warlord.
“A fool races a dragon,” said Maedrethnir, cutting across the moorlands with swift wing beats, the ground rushing past so close that the dragon’s wingtips brushed the stands of grass and bushes.
Yet the dragon’s dismissive remark was premature; the warlord broke into a run towards Maldiar, shouting madly and waving its axe. Imrik saw a gleam of magical fire as Maldiar raised his sword high and called his griffon into a steep dive.
The warlord slowed to a halt and stood with stocky legs apart, axe in both hands, fixed on the approaching Naggarothi prince. Imrik heard his dragon snarl and could feel the beast’s whole body shuddering with effort as Maedrethnir strained every sinew to close the distance before Maldiar struck.
Imrik could tell he would be too late. Maldiar was already leaning to one side in his saddle, sword held horizontal for the killing blow, the shadow of the griffon racing over the undulating ground, about to engulf the orc.
Both princes were utterly intent upon their prey. If Maldiar missed, Imrik’s lance would find the orc’s back before the Naggarothi could turn for a second attack. The Caledorian tightened his grip on the lance, glittering point spearing towards the warlord, even as Maldiar’s griffon plunged for the kill.
As a snarling blur of red, Dorien’s dragon slammed into Maldiar’s mount, sending both tumbling into the ground.
Startled, Imrik almost missed his mark, but swung the lance point back on target at the last moment. The ithilmar tip slid effortlessly through the orc’s armour, punching out of its chest as Maedrethnir swept past. The shock of the blow almost wrenched the weapon from Imrik’s grasp and lifted him against his saddle harness, the orc carried bodily through the air for some distance as Imrik’s dragon banked and rose towards the blue skies.
The warlord’s dangling body slid from the ithilmar shaft, ripping free the pennant so that it fluttered like a cape as the corpse cartwheeled down onto the rocks and grass. Maedrethnir bellowed in triumph, his roar shaking Imrik’s whole body.
Imrik was more concerned with what was going on on the ground below him. Maldiar and Dorien faced each other, swords in hand, their respective mounts looming behind each prince. The general trusted neither to stay their hand, and shouted to Maedrethnir to land close by. Imrik watch the two elves staring at each other and exchanging insults as his dragon circled tightly to reduce speed. Maedrethnir landed on all fours, beside Dorien’s dragon; Imrik had already stowed his lance and was pulling at the harness buckles before the dragon’s claws had touched the ground.
“Put away your weapons!” Imrik shouted as he swung from the saddle-throne and dropped lightly to the dirt.
“He calls us thieves,” protested Dorien, eyes locked on the Naggarothi.
“I do not take commands from Caledorian cowards,” said Maldiar, his gaze not moving from Dorien.
“Cowards?” snarled Dorien, taking a step. Maldiar raised his sword a little higher in response. “I will cut off your head for such an insult!”
“You will not,” snapped Imrik, stepping in front of his brother. He grabbed Dorien’s sword arm. “Sheathe your blade, brother.”
“Listen to your master, yapping dog,” said Maldiar. “Do not test your blade against mine.”
Imrik whirled on the Naggarothi, his hand at his sword hilt in an instant.
“I might yet,” said Imrik.
Maldiar hesitated, his sword tip wavering for a moment before he stood firm again, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
“I thought not,” said Imrik. “The battle is not yet won.”
“I am all but victorious,” said Maldiar. “The rabble have been scattered, it is only a matter of time before my warriors hunt them down.”
“This is not your victory,” said Dorien, pulling his arm from Imrik’s grip and pushing past. “Your knights would be dead, as would you, if we had not come to your aid.”
“My aid?” Maldiar’s face was a mask of sneering hatred. “Your interference almost lost me this battle.”
“Go away,” said Imrik, pulling back Dorien by the shoulder. “Destroy the rest of the enemy, brother.”
Dorien looked Imrik in the eye, cheeks twitching. Imrik met the look with a cold stare that his brother knew well. With a parting dismissive gesture, Dorien slid his sword into its scabbard and stalked back to his dragon.
Imrik returned his attention to Maldiar, who had lowered his blade but not sheathed it.
“We shall split the spoils,” said Imrik.
“How so?” replied the Naggarothi prince. He laughed sourly. “You are welcome to keep the bodies. I shall take the land.”
“No,” said Imrik. “You shall have the land west of the river, and Caledor the region to the east.”
“Why would I agree to such a thing?” Maldiar put away his sword and crossed his arms defiantly. “Why would I give half my new lands to you?”
“Some is better than none,” said Imrik. “If Malekith has complaint, let him bring it to me.”
“You know well that our fair prince campaigns in the north,” said Maldiar. “He has not set foot in the colonies for nearly fifty years.”
“Do you lack the authority to agree such a bargain?” asked Imrik. Maldiar stiffened, stung by the implication of the question.
“I am a prince of Nagarythe; I speak with the full authority of Prince Malekith and Queen Morathi.”
“Queen Morathi?” Imrik frowned at the mention of Malekith’s mother, widow of Aenarion. “Morathi is queen no more.”
“In Nagarythe she is,” said Maldiar with a sly smile. “I agree to your terms. It matters not. When Malekith returns, we shall stake our full claim and will not be refused. Enjoy your prosperity while it lasts, Caledorian. Nagarythe grows tired of shedding blood for the benefit of others. You will not make such demands in the future.”
Maldiar spun away and strode back to his griffon. The beast lowered to the ground as the prince grabbed the gem-studded reins. Before he pulled himself up to the saddle, the Naggarothi looked back at Imrik.
“You should be wiser in your words and actions, prince,” Maldiar said. “Khaine has turned his red gaze upon you, Imrik of Caledor. You should hope that he is not displeased.”
Imrik was taken aback by this mention of the Bloody-Handed God. It was widely known that the Naggarothi were blatant in their worship of the Lord of Murder, and many of the other dark gods of the cytharai, but to hear Khaine’s name spoken so openly was a shock even for Imrik. He watched as Maldiar flew away, wondering what was meant by the threat.
“Let us finish this,” Imrik said to Maedrethnir, dismissing the Naggarothi from his thoughts. Such vague insults and threats were typical of his folk.
* * *
The march back to the colony of Caledor was a long one, but the Caledorian host was in high spirits following their victory over the orc horde. Imrik did not share the jubilation of his troops, unsettled by the words of Maldiar and the events he had witnessed following the battle. Many of the Naggarothi had gathered up the wounded orcs and, instead of slaying them out of hand as Imrik had ordered his warriors, they were taken back to the camp of the Naggarothi. Imrik did not know for sure what fate had awaited these prisoners, but having heard Maldiar speak of Khaine and seen variations of the Bloody-Handed God’s rune upon some of the Naggarothi banners and shields, he had his suspicions.
Word of the orcs’ defeat had reached ahead of the army and the walls of the Grey City, Tor Arlieth, and the streets within were lined with celebrating elves. The city was built in the mountain foothills, rising above the huge canopy of forest that stretched from the sea north-west of where the orcs had been slain. Sev
enteen pale grey towers rose up from the wooded slopes, roofed with blue slate and flying the flags of Caledor. A wall ten times the height of an elf girded the city, with another half as tall around that. Between the two walls were the camps and garrisons of the army, and it was here that the knights and militia paraded to the applause of their people. Garlands of flowers looped from roof to roof, and leaves had been strewn on the pavements. Harps and horns and pipes played from roof terraces and balconies, while below the citizens cheered their warriors’ return.
Having flown thrice over the city with his brother and cousin, so that the grateful people could raise up their voices in song and praise of their heroic princes, Imrik descended to the hill upon which the keep and palaces were fashioned from the rock of the mountain. The citadel was built as a representation of a huge dragon, its walls spreading like wings until they merged with the mountainside, the main tower rearing high above topped with a roof of gold. A hundred flags flew from the battlements, each belonging to a noble house of Caledor, and above them all, the banner of the city snapped in the mountain air. Trumpets sounded through the clear air to signal the arrival of the princes, and a guard of honour formed by the huge gates; the dark red wood of the portal carved with a relief of the mountains of Caledor, the shapes of dragons flying above.
The three dragon riders landed on an immaculate lawn that split the wide plaza that surrounded the citadel. Divested of their harnesses and saddle-thrones, the dragons bade their riders farewell and flew up to caves in the mountain overlooking the city. Accompanied by Dorien and Thyrinor, Imrik strode through the opening gates as the guard company lifted their spears in salute.
Imrik wanted to head to his chambers, but was waylaid in the long entrance hall by Hethlian, the chancellor of the city. Dressed in a long robe of jade green and golden yellow, the aging elf emerged from a crowd of servants and called Imrik’s name. The chancellor was dressed in full ceremonial regalia; a belt of gold and rubies hung about Hethlian’s waist, the symbol of his position, and he carried an ornamental sceptre in his left hand, topped with a sapphire the size of a fist, intricately shaped like the petals of a rose.
“Your safe return heartens us all, princes,” said Hethlian, performing a short bow to each of them. “It is with immense pleasure and pride that I offer my personal congratulations on your victory, as well as the gratitude of the city.”
Imrik thought of more than six hundred elves whose bodies had been carried back to the colony on biers, but said nothing. They would receive their honours in time, he was sure.
“A three-day festival has been declared by the council of elders,” continued Hethlian. “You will, of course, be our guests of honour.”
“Will we?” said Imrik, startling the chancellor.
“My cousins and I would be honoured to accept your gracious invitation,” said Thyrinor, stepping next to Imrik. “Yet we are weary from the march home and would appreciate a little time to recover before we discuss the arrangements.”
Imrik looked at Thyrinor, one eyebrow raised, and suppressed a sigh. His cousin’s face was impassive, save for his eyes, which held a slight look of pleading. Thyrinor glanced towards Hethlian and nodded with an encouraging smile.
“Yes, we will attend,” said Imrik. Hethlian smiled and bowed again. He opened his mouth to speak, about to launch into a fresh monologue, but Imrik cut him off. “Has there been news from Ulthuan?”
“Um, yes, several caravans have arrived via Tor Alessi bearing missives and goods,” said Hethlian, quickly regaining his composure. “Nothing of note, I would say. Trade goes well. The colonies west of Ulthuan continue to grow, though not as strongly as here in Elthin Arvan. Prince Laetan of Cothique became a father to a beautiful daughter in the spring. Bel Shanaar attended the marriage of…” Hethlian’s voice trailed away in the face of Imrik’s unblinking stare. The chancellor rallied with a brief smile. “As I said, nothing of note.”
“What of Nagarythe?” said Imrik. “Or Malekith?”
“No news of Malekith has reached us here,” said Hethlian. “The borders of Nagarythe are still closed to trade and visitors as far as I am aware. We have, however, received several delegations from Athel Toralien. It seems they are more amenable to contact than their kin back in Ulthuan.”
“There are Naggarothi in the city?” said Dorien.
“A few, yes,” said the chancellor. “Simple traders, I assure you. You know they have far better connections to the dwarfs than we, and the demands of the city for dwarf goods have never been higher. They come and go infrequently. Is that a problem?”
“There will be if I meet one of them,” snapped Dorien. “Just keep them away from the citadel, we don’t want them prying and poking around here.”
Hethlian had no reply to this and the four elves stood in silence for a moment. Imrik glanced at Dorien with an impatient look.
“I trust that our apartments are in order and food and wine available,” said Thyrinor.
“Yes, you will find everything to your satisfaction, princes,” said Hethlian with a look of gratitude. “Your servants await you in your chambers. Let me keep you from their attendance no longer.”
The chancellor bowed again and swiftly retreated along the hallway, darting a glance over his shoulder at the princes before disappearing through a curtained archway. Imrik turned towards the corridor leading to the royal apartments, but was stopped after just two steps by a liveried servant.
“What is it?” Imrik snarled at the retainer.
“The chancellor did not mention that a letter from your brother arrived this morning, prince,” said the elf. “It was sealed with Prince Caledrian’s mark, so I left it with your household.”
“Thank you,” said Imrik. “Anything else?”
“No, prince,” said the servant, backing out of Imrik’s path.
Imrik marched along the corridor, boots ringing on the marble floors, Dorien and Thyrinor trailing behind.
“You seem even more irritable than usual, cousin,” said Thyrinor, hurrying to keep pace. “What is it that so perturbs you?”
“The Naggarothi,” replied Imrik.
“Finally,” said Dorien. “Have I not long warned you about Nagarythe? We should ban them from the city.”
“It is not the city I am worried about,” said Imrik, taking a turn to the right through a pointed archway, his footfalls muffled by a thick red carpet embroidered with white and yellow rose designs.
“Is it this letter from Caledrian?” said Thyrinor. “Do you have an inkling of what it contains?”
“No,” said Imrik, “but when I receive a personal letter from the ruler of Caledor, and not one marked by his court, I fear it bears bad tidings.”
They came upon the double doors to Imrik’s apartment. Two servants opened the pale wooden doors and bowed as Imrik paced inside without breaking stride.
“I am going to my rooms to get out of this armour,” said Dorien, continuing along the portrait-lined passageway.
Imrik simply nodded, sparing his brother not a glance. The members of the prince’s household lined the walls of the foyer. As Imrik walked past his chatelaine, Elirithrin, she stepped forwards with a small silver tray, a white envelope on the platter.
“You wish to see this?” she said.
“Thank you,” said Imrik, plucking the letter from its place as he walked past. “Bring wine and a cold platter to my study.”
“How did you know?” said Thyrinor, stopping next to Elirithrin. “That he would want to see the letter, I mean.”
“Experience,” the chatelaine replied with an expression of surprise. “I have served the prince for two hundred and thirty-eight years. I know his priorities.”
“Of course you do,” said Thyrinor. He hurried after Imrik and entered the shelf-lined study just as his cousin was sitting down behind an ornate desk.
While the offices of other elven nobles housed libraries of prose and poetry, philosophical tracts and genealogical tomes, Imrik’s was empty b
y comparison. One set of shelves was brimming with rolled parchment maps of Ulthuan and Elthin Arvan, another with bound treatises on military matters. The remaining two sets of shelves were sparsely populated with a variety of strange ornaments; amongst them a gilded orc skull with diamonds for eyes, a selection of daggers of both elvish and dwarfish make, several ornate ceremonial helmets, and a silver dragon scale the size of a spread hand mounted on a plaque—supposedly from Aenarion’s mount Indraugnir.
Imrik stood again, unfastened his cloak and laid it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down. From a drawer in the desk, he brought out a gilded letter opener in the shape of a miniature dragonspear, with a broad, leaf-shaped head. He inspected the seal, satisfied himself that it was intact and cut open the envelope with a single stroke.
He ignored Thyrinor hovering at the end of the desk as he read, quickly scanning his older brother’s flowing script. The letter was brief and to the point. Caledrian had heard increasing rumours of unrest within the borders of Nagarythe. He feared that the turmoil might spread to neighbouring Tiranoc, Ellyrion and Chrace but Bel Shanaar refused to act. He requested that Imrik return to Ulthuan, with Dorien and Thyrinor if they desired, to represent Caledor in the council of the phoenix King.
Imrik handed the letter to Thyrinor without comment and leaned back in the chair, arms folded. He watched a frown deepen on his cousin’s brow as Thyrinor read.
“Will you come?” said Imrik when he saw that Thyrinor had finished.
“What?” said Thyrinor, who was reading parts of the letter again. “I don’t know. Is it wise that we all go back?”
“I am summoned by Caledor’s prince and I must answer,” said Imrik. He leaned towards Thyrinor, one hand on the top of the desk. “I would like your company.”
“My company?” said Thyrinor with a short laugh. “I thought you always preferred your own company, cousin, though I thank you for the invitation.”
[Sundering 03] - Caledor Page 3
